"Greer. Oh G.o.d."

"You say something?"

"No, nothing."

The driver looked at me in the mirror and shook his head. My carryon bag was next to me on the seat in the dark. I reached into it and felt around for the sketchbook and a pencil. Flipping the cover over, I put the pencil to the paper and began to draw. Except for the streetlights and the occasional carheadlights flicking over us, it was utterly dark in the back of the taxi. But I drew and drew, never looking down, only feeling the pencil scratching across paper, doing whatever my hand felt like doing. I drew until we arrived at the airport, where I left the book and pencil on the seat and got out to catch a plane home.

There was a film on the flight. The stewardess gave me a set of earphones but I left them in my lap.

It was better to watch without any sound, making up dialogue in my head, guessing the plot as it skittered silently along. Anything to fill my mind.

A very beautiful blond woman has the world in her hip pocket, money, power, a handsome boyfriend who seems to love her as much as the rest of the world does. But she grows tired of it all. One day she meets an enormously fat man who works as a cashier at a supermarket. They talk, she laughs, they talk some more. The next shot is of her waiting for him out in the parking lot after work. He comes out of the store and sees her there, a blond Venus leaning on her red sports car, obviously waiting for him. Cut to his face. His eyes roll up in his head and he faints.

As the film got worse, I became more and more involved. I put on the earphones and turned them way up. The couple must fight the whole world to prove their love is real. Every cliche you could think of was in the film. Her rich parents are outraged, her once nifty boyfriend turns out to be a cad who does whatever he can to break the lovebirds up. They almost part, but true love wins out.

Probably one of the sillier films I'd seen in my life, but I laughed at the lame jokes, sat forward on my seat when things looked bad for them. At the end, when they are off in an idyllic Vermont town running a general store together, I began to cry. There was no stopping it. A middleaged woman on the other side of the aisle watched me suspiciously. What did she see? A man with a swollen, bruised face crying like a child. At that moment I would have given anything to see that movie again, but the screen went blank, then black. Unconsciously I reached into my bag for the sketchbook, but remembered I'd left it in the taxi. I looked at the staring woman but she had gone back to her magazine. There was nothing left to do but close my eyes and think about my dead boy.

I got the car from the parking lot and drove toward town. I'd been gone a little over twentyfour hours, but the only thing left in the world that was the same for me was this road with the orange lights above and the familiar billboards for airlines, hotels, weekend package trips to Las Vegas and Lake Tahoe. When I pa.s.sed the gas station where the cashier looked at you through binoculars, I thought of stopping and asking him through all his thick protective gla.s.s: Remember me? Forget how I look now; I was the one who offered you a twenty last night and made no trouble. Last night when things were only full of dangerous possibilities. Not like now with my purple split face and dead future.

I pa.s.sed the hamburger stand where the murderous gang had stood, but it was empty and only full of lonesome yellow light. A few more rights, lefts, two red traffic lights, another right turn, and I was on our street. Welcome home, Daddy. Lincoln rode his bicycle down this street. We had walked the dog together here. "Lincoln, there are some packages on the lawn. Would you give me a hand bringing them in?"

Lily's car was nowhere to be seen, but Mary Poe's black Jeep was parked in our driveway. I pulled up to the curb and turned the motor off.

"I'll count to fifty and go in. Just give me to fifty and I'll go."

The lights were on in the living room and, far away as it was, I tried to see through the window if there was anyone in there besides Mary. No movement, no forms going back and forth. I was counting to fifty in my head as I watched. At fifty I would go. Nothing moved.

Something tapped loudly on my window. I jumped. My mind screamed it's Lincoln, Lincoln's back. He's here, he's dead but he's here...

The face at the window was a woman with tan skin and dark hair. Thirtyfive or so, she was pretty but there were a great many lines on her face that showed both her age and her experience. I was so spooked by her tapping that I didn't understand when she gestured with a finger for me to roll down the window. I shook my head. She was close enough so that when she spoke I heard through the gla.s.s: "Could you put your window down? Please, only a minute."I rolled it down halfway. Calming down, I realized I knew her face from somewhere. Was she a neighbor? What was she doing out here at this time of night?

"Thank you. Do you know who I am? Do you recognize me?"

"No."

"I'm Little White, Mr. Fischer. Lincoln's friend, Little White."

When I saw her the night before, Little White was sixteen years old with a head of spiky white hair and a face so clownwhite/deathly pale you'd have thought she wore special makeup. This woman was close to my age, had short dark hair and... freckles. Yet the longer I looked, the more that familiar young face came to the surface through this one. The eyes, mouth... they were the same. I had seen her so often in the months she'd hung around with Lincoln.

"Can we talk a minute?" She waited. I didn't move. "How about Anwen Meier, Mr. Fischer?

How about Lincoln shooting at you on the road?"

I looked again at the house and got out. We stood no more than three feet apart. She was wearing a dark chic dress, a gold bracelet, high heels. I remembered what she had been wearing yesterday: dirty jeans, a Tshirt saying "Nine Inch Nails," combat boots. Now this thirtysomething woman, elegant and attractive, her perfume drifting over subtle and flowery, was saying they were one and the same.

"You're not really surprised, are you?" The voice. Yes, it was the girl's voice too, only slightly deeper.

"No."

"I knew you wouldn't be. Lincoln told me what he did to you in New Jersey. He told me why too."

I said nothing.

"I saw him today. Before he did that." She pointed at our house. "He told me he was going to do it, but I couldn't stop him. He called from the plane and asked me to pick him up. Told me to come alone and not tell Elvis. He got very upset and begged me to be there when he landed. That wasn't like him: Lincoln never asked for anything, so I said sure, okay, I'll come.

"I can't tell you how bad he looked when I saw him. In the car at first he didn't say anything, just kept clicking his lighter open and closed till it got on my nerves. I asked him what the h.e.l.l was going on and he told me. About you and your wife and how she kidnapped him. And about how you told him he was an angel.

"After he was finished telling me his whole story, he asked if I believed him. Know what I said? I'll believe it if you prove it. That's the only way you can ever really know, right? He said, 'Okay, pull over and I'll prove it.' I didn't know what to expect, but I pulled into Loehmann's parking lot and turned off the car.

"He started telling me things about myself no one in the entire world could have known. Things I'd even forgotten, they were so deeply buried.

"I was still shaking from it when he said, 'That's now, that's who you are today. Now I'm going to show you your immediate future.' When it was over and he brought me back, I had no doubt in the world that that was what the next few years of my life were going to be.

"And you know what? They were total s.h.i.t. First, thanks to Elvis, there were bad drugs which landed me in the hospital twice for long stays. Then a withdrawal clinic. I got out and, to spite my parents, married a painter who decided beating me up was more fun than painting. Worse, he wouldn't let go or give me a divorce until my parents bought him off. And even after that he made trouble for me, the psycho.

"I mean, my life was one big horror story after another. Seeing them unfold like that, I knew they'd happen, because the way I was, they made sense . Lincoln showed me every disgusting and pathetic thing that was going to happen to me those next eighteen years. Unbelievable. Eighteen more years of that! I'd be a living disaster area for as long as I'd already been alive till I finally got hold of myself and got it together. Great, huh? Lots to look forward to." She had been speaking nonstop for minutes but paused now and smiled. "Your angel showed me the ghost of my Christmas Future and it was real, all right."Then he brought me back and said, 'That's it. That's what your life is going to be like.' I asked what I could do to stop or change it. Nothing. But there was one thing he could do if I wanted: he could make me older. He said when I was thirtyfour my whole life would change and begin to be satisfying. He could skip me up there if I wanted, over those gruesome eighteen years, but with my whole history in my head, so I'd end up the same person. It'd just be like going over a bridge, and the water down below was the bad years."

"How do you feel?"

"Better than ever, and it's only been a few hours. The funny thing is, I went home and my parents didn't see any difference."

I knew she wanted to talk more about it, but I couldn't. I needed to ask other questions. "What did Lincoln say at the airport? What did he tell you?"

"He made me promise not to tell. He also said not to tell you what I think of you and your wife."

She stopped, considered this, went on. "The only thing he asked me to do specifically was give you this."

She put her hand in her purse and pulled out a pistol. "He used it on you yesterday."

"What am I supposed to do with it?"

"I don't know. Maybe he thought you'd want to use it on yourself. I have to go now. I did what he asked." Turning away, she walked down the dark street, some of her perfume still in the air.

"Wait! How could he save you if he was so upset? And why didn't you stop him from killing himself?"

"Because we were friends and wanted the other to have what they wanted. Because of what you did, Lincoln wanted to die; that was his choice. He was my friend, Mr. Fischer. He'd do anything for me, even at the end. Too bad you didn't know him." She turned again and left. I had no desire to call or follow her. She meant nothing to me, and if her story was true, so what? Lincoln was dead. My fault. My dead angel.

I slid the gun into my jacket pocket and walked across the street to the house.

"Mr. Fischer?" The two Gillcrist boys came up and Bill pointed toward Little White. "Do you know her? Is that why you were talking to her? My mother told us we're never to talk to anyone like her.

She's all old and dirty. But you did. Do you know her?"

Before unlocking the door, I rang the bell to alert whoever was inside. I hoped Lily wouldn't be there, because I wanted to see things first and hopefully hear the details. Give me time to think it over before doing anything.

"Who's there?"

"Mary? It's me, Max."

"I thought it was you. What happened to your face? Where have you been?"

"It doesn't matter. Is Lily here?"

The house smelled different. Closing the door behind me, I tried to figure out what it was.

Cooking? No. A new perfume? No. Many people. The place smelled of many people being in it all at once.

"No, she and Greer are over with Ib and Gus. The doctor gave her a sedative and it kept her pretty calm, but I wish you'd been here. She found him. He was hanging off the beam in your bedroom."

"Was there a note?"

"Yes. It said, 'This one's for you, Lily. Thanks,' and was signed: 'Not Brendan Meier.'"

"Did the police see the note?"

"Yes. They took it with them. Max, what's going on? What happened to you? Where did Lincoln go yesterday?"

"The police have the note? What did it say again?"

"'This one's for you, Lily. Thanks.' Signed: 'Not Brendan Meier.' Do you understand it? Does Lily?"

"You said she found the body? Did Greer see it?"

"Not as far as I know. Lily called me last night after you left and asked what was going on. I gave it to her very sketchily, and didn't mention the gun. I said Lincoln had probably gotten into some troubleand you were trying to get him out. She asked me over to spend the night and I came, just in case. Today she was very disturbed because she hadn't heard from either of you. I stuck around as long as I could, then took off for what I thought would only be a few hours. Greer went to school, Lily did her errands, and when she got back in the afternoon, Lincoln was... there. She found him when she walked into the bedroom.

"Max, do you know why he did it?"

She was my oldest friend, the person I trusted really more than anyone. "No. I don't understand his note either. Brendan Meier? Who is that?"

"Maybe a friend of his? That's another thing. The police went looking for his friends to question them. Elvis and Little White especially. They found Elvis, but he doesn't know anything. Apparently he started crying when he heard Lincoln was dead.

"Another thing, Max. You've got to go down and identify the body. Lily wasn't up to it and I don't think she should. Before you do anything else, you've got to go down to the morgue and identify him."

"All right. I'll do it now."

"I'd go for you, but they want"

"I said all right, Mary. I'll go now."

She touched my shoulder, I pulled away. "Will you tell me what happened out there? Was it the gun? Did all this have to do with his gun?

"No. It had nothing to do with that. I want to look at the bedroom before I go. I want to see where it happened."

"There's nothing there. Nothing left. It's just your bedroom again. Really, there's nothing left . Go look, it's just a nicely made bed, a dresser"

"And a conveniently exposed beam? I want to see it. And I have to go into his room too. I just have to be in both rooms a while. Do you understand?"

She nodded and looked at me with pity. "Okay. Do you want me to take you..."

"To the morgue? Is that the word you want, Mary? No. I'll go alone. Just tell me how to get there."

We were standing close to each other. She reached over and embraced me. I held on as long as she did but didn't give back much of a squeeze. We separated. There were tears in her eyes.

"Are you sure you don't want me to drive you?"

"I'm sure. Listen, thanks for what you've done. Thanks for being here last night, and today."

"I'm so glad I was. I wish to G.o.d this hadn't happened to you two."

"I once read an article that said only one suicide in six leaves a note. The note rarely tells the survivors what they want to know. At least we have some idea, huh? Lily and I can go around for the rest of our lives knowing . . ."

"Max"

"Just tell me how to get there."

You think a place is going to rip you apart, even walking through the door will take all your resolve and whatever courage you have. Unlike other words, like "love" or "hate." "morgue" has only one meaning. It is what it isthe place where bodies are brought for a last look. Funeral homes are not the same. If a body is at the morgue, something besides death went wrong, its last breath was suspicious.

There it is not dressed in a suit and arranged tastefully, but cut open and examined by someone looking for clues. Unlike that other house of the dead, this is not a last resting place, but rather the last questioning place. The questioners find their answers, not in words, but on the skin and under it.

I thought I would not be able to stand the morgue, but walking through the last door before coming to Lincoln's body, I choked, trying to suppress a big oldfashioned haha! laugh. The doctor leading me to the room looked over sympathetically.

"It's okay. You just look once, say if you recognize him or not, and it's over."

He was way off. I had not laughed from anguish or lunacy, but rather because, putting my hands in my jacket pockets, I discovered I was carrying Lincoln's pistol. A gun at the morgue! Who was there toshoot when everyone was already dead?

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, fine." At another time I would have been very paranoid, but not now. I was in a morgue with a pistol in my pocket, about to be shown my dead son, who'd hanged himself earlier in the day purely because of me and my beloved wife. Thought of like that, a pistol didn't mean much. His gun. My fault.

His death. My fault.

"It's here. This one. If you'll just stand back a few feet, please." There were rows of large drawers against the wall and it took an instant before I realized there were bodies in them. In the middle of the room were metal tables with drains at the bottom, but except for one, they were empty. We had stopped at the one.

There was a thin white sheet covering him. Underneath that sheet was our son, our crime, my dead Guardian Angel. The man pulled it down.

I didn't want to see the face first. That would have been too much. As the sheet slipped down, I purposely looked at the middle of the body. He had such a small belly b.u.t.ton. When he was young, tickle a finger into that belly b.u.t.ton and he'd laugh, laugh, laugh. The arms were thin, the hands delicate. They were not yet a man's hands, but would be soon. I thought of them moving, touching things. Pushing french fries into his mouth, cupping the back of his sister's neck when he'd taught her to swim. My eyes ran up his arms to the narrow shoulders but stopped when they came to the red groove around his neck.

The dividing line; a cruel red gash around his neck left by the rope. What was worse, the grayishwhite skin on his face, the closed but protruding eyes, or the red cut around his neck?

"Mr. Fischer?"

"Yes? Oh yes, it's my son. That's Lincoln."

"I'm afraid that although the cause is obvious, we'll have to do an autopsy on him because of what we call 'wrongful death.' It's required"

"I understand." I felt the gun in my pocket. It had grown warm since my hand had been on it. What would this man do if I suddenly pulled it out?

"I'm sorry, but I don't know what your rules are here, Doctor. Would it be possible to be alone with him a few minutes? Is that allowed?"